


The Westerosi Song Contest

by Loverlylo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Eurovision Song Contest, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow and the Starks Are Not Related, Multi, Other, References to the Eurovision Song Contest, The Eurovision AU nobody asked for, but I wrote anyway, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25065940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loverlylo/pseuds/Loverlylo
Summary: Every year, each country in Westeros picks an artist to compete in a music competition to encourage friendly relations between the 10 countries.This year has on-stage eye sex, emotional breakdowns, boobs, an Essosi ringer, one country trying their damnedest to loose, a terrible comeback; and that's before it even starts.All Sansa Stark wants is to stop singing power ballads about being yourself because that's not who she is. Maybe the sound guy's number.But this is the Westerosi Song Contest. Nothing is ever that easy.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 18
Kudos: 50





	1. The Selections

**Northern Recording Industry Association,** _White Harbor_

“Gentlemen, ladies, thank you all for being here.” NRIA head Rickon Karstark intoned as he stood at the head of the table, a dozen grim-faced men and women before him. “It is once again time of year. The short list is as such: experimental jazz trio The Broken, Lyanna Apple just released _Fetch the Bolt Cutters_ , and of course, Sansa Stark.”

Wyman Manderly snorted. “Guess it’s true. The NRIA must always send a Stark from Winterfell”

“Hey!” Maege Mormont remanded him. “There has been one “no points” for the North in WSC history, which is also the only time we didn’t send a Stark. Besides, it’s not like they don’t earn it; that whole family are musical geniuses."

Murmurs of agreement reverberate through the crowd. “Fine, fine.” Wyman grumbled. “I don’t think we should send The Broken; jazz is just not popular enough to win.”

“I second that.” agreed Greatjon Umber. “ _Fetch The Bolt Cutters_ is tremendous, Lyanna would sweep the jury vote.”

“But does she have the popular appeal to win the televote?” broke in Robett Glover. “I think our best choice is Sansa. She won’t sweep, but she can do well in both categories.”

Maege bit her lip. “I’m not sure. We’ve sent Sansa three times, and she’s lost each one. Practicality aside, that has to be hard for someone who’s just four and twenty. Would she even want to return for a fourth try?”

Roose Bolton shot her a sharp look. “Who else is there? Robb’s taken a serious downhill turn ever since he started dating that Valyerian activist, no one’s seen Arya since The Brotherhood broke up, Brandon Stark is in rehab again, and Ned and Catelyn can’t come out of retirement until Rickon . . . just until Rickon.”

Rickard rubbed his chin absently. “Sansa Stark didn’t lose three times, she came in second three times, and each margin was closer than the last. If anything, I would think she’d be more determined to finally taste WSC victory. Besides, no one in Westeros has a voice like hers. Sansa Stark, belting the right Northern power ballad, is a guaranteed top three finish, if not a win. All in favor?”

The Greatjon stood up and roared. “The Queen in the North!” The cry was quickly followed by everyone present. Wyman, Maege, Robett, and Rickard himself all loudly proclaimed “The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen In The North!”

Karstark raised his hand for silence. “It is decided! Sansa Stark shall represent the North in the 65th annual Westerosi Song Contest!”

The cheers of ‘the Queen in the North’ could be heard two stories down.

* * *

 **Artist’s Collective of The Free Folk** , _Hardhome_

“Quiet, you monkeys!” Shouted Mance Rayder. “Does everyone have their pick for the WSC on the board? This is the last call for entrants!” 

There was a mild scramble as two or three people rushed over to the board to get their votes on before it was too late. After everyone had quieted down and no one else was running into the line of fire, Mance approached the selection lane. With a heavy sigh, he picked up the tools of the most prestigious role granted to him as ACFF president. 

Steadying himself, Mance chugged the beer and let the dart fly. It stuck into the board with a resounding thunk, neatly piercing a single slip of paper. The room tension in the room was so thick, it was palpable as Mance approached the voting dartboard and removed the slip.

“This year, the North of the Wall will be represented by,” Mance intoned as he opened the paper. A huge grin immediately overtook him. “Tormund and the Wildlings!”

The entire crowd burst into applause, delighted the fan-favorites had won. Mance himself pulled Tormund into a tight bear hug. “The old gods smiled upon you tonight. We wish you the greatest luck. But first, a round of goats milk for everyone!”

* * *

 **Minstrels Guild of The Vale** , _The Eyrie_

Mya Stone looked around nervously. This was her first meeting as a full MGV member, and the sea of faces she’d admired all her life was intimidating the shit out of her. Suddenly, a spark of movement caught her eye. _Anya Waynwood_ , the queen of Vale soul, was waving her over!

She quickly took the empty seat next to Anya. “It’s such an honor to meet you, Miss Waynwood. I’ve loved you since I was--”

“None of that, child.” Anya cut her off. “Call me Anya. And you’re Mya Stone. I love your new song, ‘Mercy’. Even the title has power. It’s utterly brilliant. You’d do very well at WSC.”

Mya blushed so hard she forgot how to speak.

“We can only hope our esteemed president feels the same.” Anya shifted slightly to point out Lysa Arryn. She’d been alright as a part of a duo with her sister, but her solo work was pure new-age schmaltz. No one had been upset when she retired.

Suddenly, something clicked. “She’s MGV president?” How?” The confusion in Mya’s voice rang loud and clear.

Anya leaned down and whispered. “When Jon Arryn died, she was appointed interim president until a new one could be elected. Except there are no rules stipulating how often elections must be held, so she’s simply refused to hold them. Been squatting in the president’s chair for 10 years.”

A microphone crackled to life. Lysa took her place at the podiums. “Welcome, esteemed members of the Minstrel's Guild of The Vale. It is a delight to have you all here.”

There was a curious sway to her stance, and Mya had a realization. “Is she . . . drunk?” she cautiously whispered to Anya.

“Almost always.” came the sighed reply.

“As you undoubtedly know, I, like my sister, retired from music many years ago to raise a family. Unlike her, though, I raised a single boy who is now capable of behaving in society, unlike her pack of wolves. Which means I can finally make my return to music! Now, people always said Catelyn was the more talented--” Lysa ranted on, oblivious to her unhappy audience.

Anya snorted. “And they were right. I cannot wait for Ned and Cat to come out of retirement, but Rickon is just so wild I don’t blame them.”

Mya murmured her assent. “He’s got the family talent, but he’s so indecisive. Drums in Arya Stark’s punk band before that imploded, vocals for Robbs EDM project, saxophone with Bran’s jazz band. He just needs to find his fit.”

“-- Therefore I shall represent the Vale at this year's Westerosi Song Contest!” Lysa proclaimed from the stage. Half-hearted applause arose from the audience once the sheer horror wore off.

Mya groaned. WSC was a long shot for her, but this guaranteed the Vale would do poorly and would likely damage the reputation of their entire musical scene. “Is there truly no way to get her out of office?”

With a long-suffering look, Anya shook her head. “The only way she’s leaving is through a window.”

“Anya!” Mya rebuked her. “Don’t be ridiculous; the windows are much too small. Now if we let her have a couple more drinks and she stumbles towards the Moon Door . . .” she trailed off.

The older lady pulled back and gave Mya a once-over, then wrapped her arm tightly around her shoulders. “Oh, I like you, Mya Stone. You’re one of my proteges now; I’ve decided. First rule: stay away from Peytr Baelish.”

* * *

 **Recording Acts Association of the Riverlands** , _Riverrun_

Hoster Tully sighed as his son entered his office, Edmure’s face in a grim line. “Did Darry, Fisher, and Whent call you?”

“Sadly, yes. The RAAR’s votes for the Riverlands WSC National Selection have been tabulated, and we can call them at our leisure for the results.” Edmure dropped into the chair with a groan. “A count this early can only mean one thing: a Frey winner.” 

Hoster simply pulled out his good Reach whiskey and poured a glass for himself and his son. “Looks like another bottom three finish for us. Damn Freys running the table. At least the Crownlands are always worse.” Taking a healthy swallow, Hoster dialed the number for his accountant at DFW.

“Hoster! Glad to hear from you again!” Came the familiar voice of Oswell Whent. “How’s Minnie?” 

“Min’s fine, Oswell. Redecorating the foyer again, and happy as a clam about it. But this is a professional call, so let’s get it over with.” Hoster stopped and took another drink. He liked his wife’s cousin, but no amount of small talk would make this less awful. 

“Of course, of course! I have to say, this alone is worth putting retirement off another few years!” Oswell’s chipper voice echoed through the speakers. “Alright, the winner of this year's RAAR vote, and representative at the Westerosi Song Contest is Roslin Frey!”

At that, Edmure sat up. “Did you say _Roslin_ Frey?”

A shuffling of papers could be heard as Oswell double-checked his papers. “Yes, Roslin Frey in an absolute landslide, 72 percent of the vote.”

“Thanks, Uncle Oswell, see you next week!” Edmure slammed the phone down and looked at his father, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “Dad, Roslin Frey is actually good. Strong voice, charismatic performer, punk aesthetic with pop hooks; quick, pull up her entry!”

As the sweet yet biting voice filled the air, seething out “It’s a nice day for a red wedding!” the father and son’s eyes met and grinned. 

Hoster refilled their glasses and held his aloft. “To Roslin Frey: We may have a shot this year!” 

* * *

**Iron Island’s Musicians Consortium** , _Pyke_

“Everyone, let me be clear: the Iron Islands cannot win the Westerosi Song Contest this year.” Rodrick Harlow spoke with grave finality. “We have won four times in the last 10 years. The cost is tremendous, we simply cannot afford to host again.”

Euron Greyjoy rose to his feet. “Neither can we withdraw! No one has ever declined to participate! It would be complete humiliation, especially when we have to publicly admit we cannot afford to win!”

“So you think it better to risk bankrupting the country? They will certainly find out about our finances then. No, we need to rebuild!” Rodrick shot back.

“We must look strong!”

“We must become strong!”

“Quiet, the both of you!” Yara Greyjoy broke in. “Is entering a serious risk, Uncle Rodrick?” She asked with patience and calm. Yara preferred action to words, but believed information bettered either route.

Rodrick pulled his spectacles off his head and placed them properly before clicking forward a few slides in his power point. “Quite simply, the only consistently strong competitors are us, the North, and the Stormlands. Sansa Stark is probably going but she’s never won it and the power ballads are a bit played out. Renly is the Stormlands top contender but is too controversial to consider a true favorite. Lysa Arryn’s come out of retirement, so she’ll probably send herself--

A shudder ran through the room at that.

“-- The Riverlands will probably end up sending another Frey, Dorne prefers to send up-and-comers, the Reach is extremely hit or miss, the Crownlands and North of the Wall are always terrible, and The Kingsguard’s bassist just joined a cult!” Rodrick finished. “It’s our game to lose, and we cannot win. Withdrawing is the only sensible option.”

Theon had been uncharastically quiet. He was the son of a politician, after all. He’d grown up seeing how the sausage was made. He understood the risks of both entering and risking showing weakness, or withdrawing and cementing it. Then, an idea hit.

“Rodrick, you said it’s ours to lose. So why don’t we lose it?” He looked at the blank faces around him, realizing once again that the Iron Islands sucked at sideways moves. “We send an act so terrible no one will vote for it. We let Sansa or Renly take the win. Then we rebuild the economy and resume competing for real next year.”

“That’s actually a decent idea.” Eruon admitted grudgingly.

“It might work,” Rodrick mused after careful consideration. “But how do you ensure that it doesn’t end up a ‘Springtime for Harren’?”

Theon sat back in his chair and grinned. “Easy. I go with ‘The Iron Price of Love’. And--” he broke off the protests that “Iron Price” was a good song “-- And Yara joins me.”

Yara stared, disgusted. “You mean, we’d sing that to _each other_?” 

Everyone present recoiled as her words sunk in, then had a moment of clarity as the brilliance of Theon’s plan hit. 

“Nobody would vote for that. It’s vile, it’s depraved, it’s perfect.” Euron clapped his nephew on the back. “You’re a cunning one.”

“Yes, I am.” Theon agreed. “Now that I’ve saved your asses, let’s talk about the reduced royalties for stage soundtracks, and how those need to end.”

* * *

 **Casterly Rock** , _The Westerlands_

Brienne Tarth still had difficulty believing her life was real. A month ago, she’d been a studio musician, one of the most respected in the business. One fateful phone call later, and she was a member of The Kingsguard, the very band that inspired her to learn music after their first performance at the Westersoi Song Contest. She’d had posters of Beric Dondarrian, Ser Arthur Dayne, Barristan Selmy, and Jaime Lannister on her wall for years, and now she played with them!

Well, three of them. Beric apparently joined a fire cult run by a woman named Melisandre, thus the opening she’d filled. It was a dream come true. Almost. Arthur (“No sers, please, I’m just a drummer”) and Barristan were lovely, but Jaime teased her constantly. Called her ‘bass wench’, asked her opinions on everything, and made comments about her legs and eyes that would have made Brienne believe he was flirting with her if she didn’t own a mirror.

Still, Jaime valued her input. He didn’t expect her to be a carbon copy of Beric. He had no issues letting her put her own flair on the basslines, and took her lyrical ideas seriously. He’d even written “Juke Box Hero” after her confession that The Kingsguard was the entire reason she decided to play music professionally. 

The door burst open. _Think of the Stranger and he shall appear_ , Brienne mused ruefully as Jaime joined them, somehow late despite their rehearsal space being in his own damn castle. Because of course Jaime Lannister has a castle, and had turned it into a home recording studio, complete with bedrooms for each band member. 

Hers was right across from his.

“Excellent news, bass wenches and gents!” Jaime crowed. “The Westerland Recording Artists Union said we could keep our slot as the Westerosi Song Contest representatives even with the change in line-up. We just need to pick a new song written with Brienne, and that’s honestly for the best. I vote ‘Urgent’.” 

Brienne blushed as Jaime carefully ran his knuckles down her cheek. “Urgent” was the first song she’d helped write, and whenever they performed it, she’d get lost in his gaze, much to Arthur and Barristan’s annoyance. She didn’t know why it happened, either. Something about Jaime’s beautiful green eyes just captivated her, pulling her in . . .

Unexpectedly, Brienne got hit in the face with a jet of water. She blinked and realized Jaime was wet, too. “What the seven hells?” she gasped as she tried to get the water out of her eyes. She looked over to see Arthur holding a spray bottle.

“I am sick of you two eye-fucking constantly! And there’s no way we can do ‘Urgent’, it’s like watching live porn! ‘Juke Box Hero’ is the one.” Arthur sighed in disgust.

Barriston nodded. “I’m with him. On everything.” He held up a bottle of his own. “Besides, ‘Juke Box’ has a better story.”

With a grin, Jaime nodded. “‘Juke Box Hero’ it is. Say, bass wench,” Jaime stripped off his shirt and tossed at Brienne. She caught it on reflex, mesmerised by his 8-pack abs and firm, well shaped biceps. “Think you could hand me a towel?”

Barristan simply squirted him again.  
  


* * *

 **Musicians Association of the Reach** , _Oldtown_

Margaery Tyrell did her best to conceal her contempt. It was difficult, but no one likes a sore winner. Still, she had no real competition for this year's WSC slot and everyone knew it. The “contenders” seated with her as the MAR banquet were an absolute joke. Dickon Tarly, the pretty boy “rapper”, the Redwyne twins, whose last album was an insult to baroque pop, and Three Roses, a diabetes-inducing trio of her cousins Elinor, Alla, and Megga. The most insulting was Leonette Fossoway, a poor imitation of Margaery’s style. 

_At least she has the sense to acknowledge it_ , Margaery considered. Leonette fell all over herself, gushing about how brilliant Margaery’s last album was, how talented of a performer, how “Come and Play” was her favorite song _ever_ . Still, it was good to know that Leonette understood that she was the second fiddle-- it would allow them to build a respectful “rivalry” without Margaery having to get mean. _Even if she’s been eyeing Garlan for an hour_.

A clinking glass caught her ear. Randall Tarly was on his feet, the usual bouquet of golden roses on the table next to him. 

“Thank you all for being here.” He intoned. “It is a pleasure to have you all here for the annual Musicians Association of the Reach banquet. We may compete on the charts, but we are all artists, and it is wonderful to celebrate our craft.”

He paused for the light applause to die down. Margaery simply adjusted to ensure her best angle was on display. “Now, for the highlight of the banquet: the announcement of our entrant for the Westerosi Song Contest. The finalists, in alphabetical order are: Leonette Fossoway, Redtwined, Dickton Tarly, Three Roses, and Margaery Tyrell.”

All eight contestants waved at the assembled crowd, waiting to hear the inevitable. “This year's entrant is Margaery Tyrell.”

With an ease gained from hours of practice, Margaery dropped her jaw in shock. She hugged Leonette, Dickon, and her cousins, then carefully made her way to the podium to accept the nomination and her flowers. As she gushed about not expecting it, and vowing to bring the Reach their first win in 15 years, all she could think was how proud her grandmother, a WSC winner herself, would be. _Everything is coming up golden roses, Nana_.

* * *

 **Dornish Performer’s Federation,** _Sunspear_

The twelve men and women of the Dornish Westerosi Song Panel sat in awkward silence. The debate leading up to their marking their votes and handing them off for counting was always great fun, but waiting for the results was beyond dull. 

Finally, Anders Yronwood entered, clipboard in hand. “Everyone, we have a winner. It was a close one, but the winner, for their outstanding stage presence and tight choreography, is the Sand Snakes with ‘Dope’. Congratulations, Oberyn. You must be proud of them.” He reached out his hand for the proud father to shake.

Quentyn Qorgyle scoffed. “Eight daughters by five women. By the seven, Oberyn, did you never hear of condoms?”

* * *

 **Storm’s End** , _The Stormlands_. 

“I’m going to kill my brother.” Stannis muttered. “I don’t begrudge him his happiness; I truly don’t.” He assured his assistant, Cressen. “But eloping one month before the Westerosi Song Contest then taking a nine-month honeymoon around the Free Cities? Renly never did have any sense of responsibility.”

Cressen looked up from his phone. “You’re completely right, sir, but we still need a new entrant. Now, there is some good news: Gendry Waters sent in an entry.”

Stannis shot him a confused look. “Didn’t The Brotherhood break up?”

“Not just the Brotherhood. Gendry and Arya Stark. He’s a complete mess. Wrote her this sappy love ballad and wants to perform it at WSC to win her back.” Cressen played the song, and it was sappy. It was over the top. It was what the Stormlands needed. Still, there was one problem.

Stannis listened, the sound of sobs unmistakable as Gendry gasped out “Baby come back! You can lay it all on me!”. “Is he crying?” Stannis asked, wanting to ensure he wasn’t going crazy. 

“Yes. He couldn’t get through a take without breaking down. But,” Cressen held up his hand. “This was when the breakup was fresh; I’m sure he’ll have gotten it together. And if he doesn’t, the audience will eat it up.”

Stannis had to admit Cressan made some good points. The Stormlands were known for their larger than life antics, huge emotions like this would blend with their style. “But what if Arya is there? The North always sends a Stark. They might well send her, and if not, it’ll be one of her siblings or an aunt.”

Cressen handed his phone over. “Not an issue. We managed to get confirmation she’s in Braavos learning the art of the water guitar from someone named Jaqen H’ghar.” 

Stannis scrolled through the photos. That was undeniably Arya Stark in front of the Titan of Braavos. “Alright. Gendry Storm it is. Call him in to tell him the good news.”

Cressen smiled. “He’s already here, sir.” Cressen opened the door with a flourish . . . only to be met with the sight of Gendry Storm, punk legend, in a ball on the floor, clutching a pillow and blubbering to the janitor.

“I just loved her so much! I knew she was afraid of commitment, but I was afraid I’d lose her! And that’s why she left!” Gendry buried his face in his purloined cushion and let loose a ferocious howl. 

Cressen simply let out a deep breath. “We’ll send Davos with him.”

* * *

 **Crownlands Recording Artists Association** , _Kings Landing_.

Tyrion felt that it would be best to have the wine on-hand. So he did, ensuring each member of the selection committee had a full glass or three before he started, no matter the look Varys gave him. He’d thank him in a few moments.

“I know we have given up on the Westerosi Song Contest. We consider it a victory if we come in second to last. This is in no small part thanks to Cersei using her controlling interest in the CRAA to strongarm us into backing her choices.” Tyrion said gravely, turning the remote in her hand. “But this year, we cannot give in.”

He pressed play, and then it began. Joffrey Lannister, barely five and ten, singing in his thin, cracking voice about being too sexy for his shirt, which he then removed. As he moved down for his belt, Tyrion paused the video and drank his first glass of wine. Everyone else followed suit.

“Forget being an international laughingstock, I cannot show you more if I want to avoid jail for child pornography. We quite literally cannot send Jeoffry, no matter what my sister says.” Tyrion stated, daring anyone present to challenge him. None did.

“So what do we do?” Asked Lollys Stokeworth, a quiet girl known for her piano-based tracks. “I’ll be honest, I’m a musician myself and I’d never consider going to WSC for the Crownlands. It’d doom my career. No one in Westeros would.”

Quiet hung heavy in the room, everyone drinking glumly, until Tyrion noticed his assistant raising his hand shyly. “Yes, Pod? And put your hand down.”

“You said no one in Westeros would compete for the Crownlands. What about outside Westeros?” He fidgeted as he spoke. “Get a ringer from Essos. No career to lose, plenty of new fans to gain?”

Tyrion started on his second glass of wine as he turned the idea over in his head. “That’s not a bad idea, Podrick. Not at all. But what Essosi performer would _want_ to compete in the Westerosi Song Contest?”

Podrick moved towards Tyrion's laptop. “Someone born in Westeros, but had to leave as a baby. Whose family ran a large Ponzi scheme, but who clearly didn’t take part. Someone who can out-belt Sansa Stark.”

“This is footage from her concert in Norvos last week.” A grainy, shaky video of a beautiful woman with white blonde hair played. Everyone, even Varys, dropped their jaws to the ground. As Podrick promised, she could outdo the Queen in the North.

“This is perfect.” Tyrion breathed. He could hear those "nine points" now. “Welcome to the Crownlands, Daenerys Targaryen.”

* * *

 **Lannisport Arena** , _Lannisport_

Jon couldn’t help but feel small as he entered the Lannisport Arena. No one could, the space was massive. Somehow, the half-built stage made it seem even bigger. He quietly moved towards the mass of people clustered around the stage, front and center. A few stood on it, including the reason Jon was here. 

Jeor Mormont was a legend. No one could assemble a show like he could, let alone keep it moving smoothly. Plus, he was notoriously picky about who worked under him. You had to be the best, or have the potential to become the best. Mediocrity was not accepted.

So when Jeor himself called to offer Jon a job as a sound tech at WSC, he jumped. It didn’t matter if he loathed this bloated pageant of focus groups set to the blandest music possible. Working the Westerosi Song Contest even once would be a hell of a line on his resume, and Jon would do whatever he had to to succeed.

He took a seat in the back, popping his foot up on the empty chair in front of him. The man next to him offered a hand. “Hello there. I’m Sam, Sam Tarly. Talent wrangler.”

Jon took it and gave it a firm shake. “Jon Snow. Sound engineer.” He looked around at the army of people in black, most of whom appeared to know each other. “First time?”

“Oh, yes. My father’s horrified.” Sam confided. “Disowned me, as a matter of fact. He has a limited idea of what is acceptable for me, and doing anything near his field of work was not it. We were never close, but still.”

Jon smiled, despite himself. Sam had a gregariousness that made it hard to dislike him. He also didn’t seem to take Jon’s silence personally, accepting his quiet murmurs as the other man explained his entire family had reached out to him, "so disownment hadn’t been a real loss.”

“Excuse me! Are you two girls done back there or can I get going?” A harsh man shouted from the stage. Jon disliked him immediately. However, anyone whose first instinct was humiliation was asking for it to be served back.”

“My apologies.” He yelled. “I didn’t realize Jeor Mormont changed bodies.”

A snicker ran through the crowd, and even the old bear himself had to suppress his grin. The harsh man merely turned purple with rage. 

Jeor, composure regained, took his place center stage. “Good morning, everyone. I am Jeor Mormont, head of the Night’s Watch production company. This morning, we received the list. That is the list of the ten acts competing in the 65th Westerosi Song Contest. In a single month, the most complicated stage show of the year will commence. The sets are larger, the effects grander, and all of this is only amplified by the fact that there is only one week to iron out any problems.”

Mormont let out a large sigh. “Before you all set off to work, allow me to make one point. We are called the Night’s Watch, because, like the Watch of old, we hold no allegiance to any country. You are not Northmen, Crownmen, or Reachmen anymore. Our only priority is the Westerosi Song Contest. Until the start of tech week, we alone know all the contestants. Until the start of the show, we alone know the songs. Any leaking of information will result in immediate dismissal. Sabotage will result in jail time. This is one of the few things that can pull Westeros together, and I will suffer no attempts to diminish it.” His gaze swept over the assembled crew, ensuring every single person could feel the weight of his gaze. 

“What are you all sitting around for?” He barked out. “We’re on the clock.”


	2. Day 1: Welcome Banquet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa meets her handler, her competition, her competition, her other competition, her sister's ex, and her sound tech.
> 
> They are nice, bitchy, horny, arrogant, devastated, and a condescending prick who also happens to right.

Sansa kept her breathing steady as she wound her way through the crowd of reporters, paparazzi, and typical looky-loos found in an airport. Many others would crumble under the onslaught of attention and flashbulbs, but not her. She was Sansa Stark, the Queen in the North, and this was her territory. 

She quickly spotted her assigned handler; the all black ensemble favored by the WSC tech crew familiar even without the small “S. Stark” sign. Her last one had been an exceedingly flirtatious man named Satin, but this one appeared an improvement. He smiled as he waved at her, taking her small suitcase from her once she reached him.

“Afternoon, Miss Stark. I’m Samwell Tarly from the Westerosi Song Contest. Any other luggage?” He spoke in such a way that suggested he’d memorized his greeting rather than risk going blank.

She gave him a soft smile, grateful that the hordes had backed off. Jeor Mormont’s dedication to secrecy was famous enough that few risked trying to eavesdrop on the tech crew for tidbits. “No, everything else has been sent on ahead. I know better than to bring anything more than the basics to the welcome dinner.”

Tarly gave a quiet chuckle, the two chatting amiably about the Lannisport humidity as they made their way to the car. On the way to the hotel and banquet, they quickly ironed out the nitty-gritty details-- her room number, act assignment, rehearsal times, privacy restrictions and the like. Her handler had started off tense, but as they went on relaxed in a way that made her suspect his other talent hadn’t gone so smoothly.

“Was your other act a handful? You seem pretty relieved to have an old hand like me around.” She asked once all their business was wrapped up.

“Oh, yes.” Realizing what he’d said, Tarly flushed with embarrassment. “Not that they weren’t lovely people, just very enthusiastic. Plus it was their first time south of the Wall, and Gilly’s pregnancy complicates every--” He cut himself off, horror-struck as the realization that he’d committed the cardinal sin of the WSC.

Sansa laughed and reassured him. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. And besides, we’re twenty minutes from the hotel; I’ll find out then.” Once her handler resumed breathing, Sansa mulled over his actual words.  _ Gilly, South of the Wall, pregnancy.  _ “Tormund and the Wildlings are here? They were my opening act last time I toured above the wall.”

Tarly sat up. “You know them? Because I’d wanted to ask Gilly, but it’s so horribly invasive, but she doesn’t wear a ring…”

With a smile, Sansa noted how Tarly’s eyes lit up at the thought of the Wildling’s keyboardist, a sweet girl on a losing streak in men. “The father’s not around, and good riddance to bad rubbish. I might still have her number in my phone, though.”

* * *

Sansa gave her lipstick one last once-over before leaving the bathroom. While the annual WSC Participant Welcome Banquet was ostensibly a low-key affair, a chance for the 10 competing musical acts to relax and get to know each other before the hectic week ahead of them. In reality, it was the first stage of the competition, and after three loses, she was here to win.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa strode up to the elaborate double doors and pulled them open, making sure to pause for a moment in the doorway. A cursory glance told her she was the second-to-last to arrive, much to her delight. 

Eight acts and two sound techs stared at her. Some in awe, some in recognition, and some in disdain, but all with respect. Good.

A quick glance told her that this year they’d decided to seat everyone according to their performance groups rather than in one table. Two round tables filled with musicians, plus the sound techs who ruled over the stages like gods.

Well, demigods. Jeor, Jorah, Aemon Targaryen and others from the Night's Watch sat at a head table facing the others. The table for performance group 2 appeared completely full, much to relief, as it meant she wouldn’t be talking much to any of them. Allister Thorne, the legendary asshole, was there along with her Aunt Lysa. She gave a small wave to her aunt, along with far more genuine smiles to Theon Greyjoy and his sister plus Tormund and the Wildlings. They’d been a fun group to party with on tour. Maybe too much fun-- she couldn’t remember her last night with them  _ at all _ . She wasn't sure about the others, some Dornish girl group an a girl who was probably a Frey.

Her own table was far more satisfactory. Margaery Tyrell was there, a fellow returning competitor, in addition to The Kingsguard. Her heart gave a pang when she saw Gendry Waters-- she loved her sister, she really did. But Arya had done him wrong. However, the most eye-catching member of the table was the stunningly gorgeous man in Watch gear, though Sansa suspected he’d wear head-to-toe black regardless. In any event, it flattered him. Dark eyes, long dark hair scraped into a messy bun, and the kind of rough, short beard many techies sported from being too busy to shave, but he pulled it off magnificently. And the placard bearing her name was right next to him. 

She slunk into her chair, apologizing when she “accidentally” brushed his leg while squeezing in. “So sorry about that. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Sansa. Sansa Stark.” 

She held out her hand in greeting, but Dark, Brooding, and Sexy merely nodded at her in response. “Jon. Snow.” While terse, the accent was unmistakable, even if the name hadn’t been. 

Sansa gave a little giggle, making sure to give her most winsome smile. “You know, Jon, I think this is the first time I’ve ever met another Northerner at the WSC. How’d you end up here?”

“Don’t bother, Sansy-pants” The unmistakably smug voice of Margaery Tyrell broke in. “Jon’s not much of a talker. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Sansa’s smile turned icy. They’d been rivals for years: Margaery the sex bomb vs Sansa the wholesome empowerment performer. “Margaery, so good so see you again. I didn’t think you’d come again after the--” she dropped into a faux whisper, despite knowing perfectly well every person on the continent, let alone at the table, knew what she was talking about “No points you got last time.”

Margaery had performed as a sexy childish puppet. It hadn’t gone over well.

Her rival waived it off. “Oh, that. It was hard, but better to be bold and fail then repeat the same bland formula and come in second over and over.”

Sansa felt her eye twitching at the dig. She knew damn well her material had plateaued. Hells, she’d never even liked singing those boring ballads. But, as her label had made clear, dramatic songs about being yourself was the only thing people wanted from her. 

Before she could lunge at the Reachwoman with her fork, the woman on her left broke in. “How is your mother doing? I did some work for her last charity special a few years ago.”

Sansa rapidly shifted gears, trying to remember her mothers backing band before getting the right name. “Brienne Tarth, it’s good to see you! She’s doing great, except for, well, Rickon.” Two days before she left, her brother had attempted to collapse part of Winterfell Castle in order to record the sounds for a new “experimental ambient noise experience. “But you’re part of The Kingsguard, congratulations.”

The Kingsguard were legends even to a repeat performer like her. The entire continent could remember their debut performance at the WSC finals twenty years ago, where pretty teenage prodigy Jaime Lannister won the hearts of millions. Over the last two decades, the foursome had matured from teen idols to rock gods to living legends. When she first met them, Sansa had nearly swallowed her own tongue when the four-time winner of  _ Westeros’s Sexiest Man Alive  _ asked her dad who the “pretty little thing” with him was. Now, though, the glamour had long since faded, and she had no qualms about catching Arthur Dayne’s eye and digging for gossip.

“So what actually happened to Beric? I keep hearing rumors he joined a fire cult, of all things.” Sansa chuckled at the sheer ludicrousness of it all. 

Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He, um, he did. Met a woman named Melisandre, now he worships flames and thinks he’s come back from the dead.” He punctuated the sudden uncomfortable silence with a drink from his water glass.

Fortunately, Jaime was a consummate showman and knew just how to ease the tension. “Thank goodness he did, really. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have our delightful bass wench here.” He’d already draped one arm around Brienne’s chair, but now he moved to start toying with the few strands of hair flying free from the severe headband the other woman wore. 

Sansa would have thought Brienne wouldn’t tolerate such behavior, but to her surprise, the blonde leaned into his touch and caught his gaze. “And then where would we be? The same old patterns all over again, rather than something fresh and exciting and passionate. Isn’t that right, bass wench?” As he continued, Jaime’s voice dropped into something sensuous and tender, making Sansa feel as if she was intruding on a private moment and not at a public dinner. 

All of a sudden, Jaime, Brienne, and Sansa got hit with squirts of ice cold water. She looked over, baffled to see Barristan Selmy holding a spray bottle. “Sorry about that lass. I was aiming for those two.” He gestured at his bandmates, who looked resigned rather than confused or offended. “Can’t make it ten minutes without eye fucking. I’ve clocked them. Though Jaime is right about Brienne giving our sound a lift. She’s got a very bright way of seeing things.”

“Of course she does, with eyes as stunning as those.” Jaime took the resulting squirt in stride, muttering something that sounded like “worth it” under his breath.

“I’m quite glad to hear that.” Everyone turned to stare at the rough-voiced statement, though more at the speaker than the sentence. Jon Snow seemed rather perturbed to find himself at the center of attention, though Sansa saw a slight shift in him. She guessed he wasn’t one for people, but if he was running sound as WSC, he had to know music. “There’s nothing more depressing than when good artists repeat the same sounds over and over because it’s what people want to hear. You used to push the boundaries and set trends, but The Kingsguard haven't had a new idea in five years; just making the same album over and over. So you telling me that something’s changed, that Brienne’s pushing you in a new direction? Makes me glad. Margaery’s got it right: better to try and fail than to stick to a formula. Especially when it doesn’t pay off.” 

He gave her a sharp grin that drove a dagger into her heart, while simultaneously making his pretty face even prettier.  _ Fucker is prettier than I am _ , Sansa thought spitefully. She leveled a glare and his stupidly pretty face, giving him her best Ice Queen look. “Like me? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Don’t stick to a formula like Sansa Stark, who has three WSC second places, all of which topped the charts, plus two other top five hits and two albums that debuted at the top of the charts and being one of the highest grossing touring acts of Westeros for the last three years?”

“Yes.” Jon gave a shrug. “Because for all of that, your music is boring.” He pulled a silver flask out from his waist and gave a long pull.

She gave a scoff of indignation she didn’t really feel. “What a shock, the big bad rocker spits on music aimed at women. Catch me, I’m about to faint.” She poured every once of sarcasm possible into her voice, hoping no one noticed she didn’t say he was wrong.

Jon leaned towards her, voice so quiet it was almost a whisper, except it had too much growl in it for that. “Every single you put out is some shite about being yourself or finding yourself or loving yourself, except I can’t hear you in any of them. Each one is bland and nondescript, with the only saving grace being your impeccable range. As soon as someone who can out-belt you shows up, you’re done. Because you’re nothing but a pretty doll, to be tossed aside when a newer, shinier one shows up.”

Fury welled up in Sansa’s throat, mostly because she agreed with every word coming out of his mouth. Her music was formulaic, and milquetoast, and she had tried to go into a new, energetic, and yes, poppier direction, she’d been shouted down from every side. Her label swore she’d alienate her fans, her parents disparaged her going “commercial”, and her siblings called her a sell-out. Still, if there was one thing she knew, it was that no one in Westeros could out-sing her.

With a crash, the doors burst open. The last contestant was here. The rest of the table murmured in curiosity about the blonde woman and her well-muscled shadow, but Sansa knew perfectly well who she was, and that made her blood run cold.

“She’s Daenerys Targaryen.”

And Daenerys Targaryen, could possibly out-belt her.

* * *

A hush fell over the room. Unlike Sansa’s mix of stares, Daenerys was greeted with only confusion. She might be Essos’s biggest star, but not a lot of Essoi music made its way to Westeros outside of the music blogs. 

In spite of that, the woman acted as if every person here was chanting her name. Calm and regal, she made her way over to the remaining empty seats. Her oddly shirtless companion shadowed her, eyes scanning the room while remaining a step behind. Sansa might have thought him a bodyguard, if not for how his gaze melted whenever it crossed his lady. 

“Hello. I’m Daenerys Targaryen, but you all can call me Dany. This is Drogo.” She smiled softly, but her eyes seemed far more animated, as if she was trying to contain her excitement beneath her façade. “It’s wonderfully exciting to be here, isn’t it?”

Margaery recovered first. “Yes, it is. Some of us are returning performers, but it’s always a thrill to be here. Are you two a duo?”

Dany laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “Sadly, no. I keep trying to talk him into making an appearance on one of my albums, but he always refuses. He just doesn’t like when I travel without him. Plus, I need someone to watch my babies when I’m onstage.”

As if on cue, three dachshunds ran into the room, making a beeline for their mother. Two sat on command, while the third kept yipping. Drogo picked it up and said something in a low, guttural voice in a harsh-sounding language that made Sansa suspect the wiener dog was being threatened with becoming wienerschnitzel. Jon somehow found this hilarious.

“I adopted them right after my last brother died. I can’t bear to leave them behind.” She said without apology. “It’s why my fans call me the Mother of Dachshunds. I’m so sorry to interrupt, we got held up at customs. What were you talking about before our dramatic entrance.”

Brienne spoke up, may the Old Gods and the New bless her soul. “Whether to reinvent yourself and risk failure if it doesn’t work or to stick with something that does.”

“That’s a silly question.” Daenerys said with such finality that Sansa could tell few, if any, ever argued with this woman. “Of course you need to change and grow musically. I know some here may feel differently,” the blonde fixed her eyes on Sansa “But you’re not much of a musician if you’re just a one-trick pony. I grew up in so many places, and I try to draw from all of them. It’s why the Essoi press call me the Breaker of Genres.”

“I thought it was the Breaker of Ranges.” Sansa said, referring to an incident where Daenerys had overreached and her voice cracked and died in the middle of a televised concert special. “Besides, your fans worship you. It’s not much of a risk when you know you’ll have sales even if the song’s mediocre. I seem to remember ‘The Spoils of War’ doing well despite being lambasted by the critics.”

Jon Snow, who had the misfortune of being seated between herself and Daenerys, just pulled his flask out and took another drink.

Out of nowhere, Gendry looked over at her. She’d actually forgotten he was here, he’d been so quiet. “Sansa?” It was broken and confused, as if he hadn’t realized she was here. “Have you talked to Arya?”

Her heart broke. This man loved her sister to the ends of the world, and Arya had just bailed on him without a word. “No, sorry. She’s been avoiding my calls. Actually, she’d been avoiding everyone’s calls.”

Without warning, Gendry Waters, punk god and cool head to Arya’s flaming temper, burst into tears. Not quiet ones either, but sobs that wracked his whole body. “It’s my fault! All my fault! I loved her too deep and now she’s hiding from everyone she’s ever known! I should have known three years was too early to say ‘I love you’!”

Sansa hoped that wherever her sister was, she was giving her feelings a serious sorting out.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, a rough shorthand for the roles/ influences taken from Eurovison
> 
> Countries
> 
> North- Sweden
> 
> North of the Wall- Finland
> 
> Iron Islands- 90s Ireland
> 
> The Stormlands: Russia
> 
> Crownlands- UK
> 
> The Night's Watch- the technical crew
> 
> Artists:
> 
> Lynanna Stark- Fiona Apple
> 
> Sansa Stark- Anja, "Where I Am" (Denmark 2017)
> 
> Lysa Arryn- Enya, only terrible
> 
> Catelyn Stark- Loreena McKennitt
> 
> Mya Stone- Duffy, "Mercy"
> 
> Roslin Frey- Billy Idol, "White Wedding" 
> 
> Theon Greyjoy- Lin-Manuel Miranda
> 
> The Kingsguard- Foreigner, "Urgent" and "Juke Box Hero"
> 
> Margaery Tyrell- Eleni Foureira/ Petra Nielson "Come and Play (Masquerade)"
> 
> Sand Snakes- BTS 
> 
> The Brotherhood- The Clash
> 
> Gendry- Player, "Baby Come Back"
> 
> Cersei Lannister- Madonna, but terrible
> 
> Daenerys Targaryen- Celine Dion 
> 
> Tyrion- Graham Norton


End file.
